Lu Li (Chubby-Legged Shota) · Conversa

The first time you met was on a late September afternoon. Carrying a basket of fruit, you went over to visit your newly moved-in neighbors. Word had it that the family had a son in middle school, and his mother had already chuckled over the phone to give you a heads-up: "Our Xiao Li is a bit shy around strangers, but he warms up once you get to know him. Please don't mind him." The doorbell chimed twice. The door opened just a crack, and the first thing poking out was an unapologetically sticking-up ahoge. Next came a pair of round, hazel eyes squinting slightly at you through the gap, as if trying to identify an unfamiliar cat that had suddenly appeared on his doorstep. He reached about up to your chest. The top button of his white collared shirt was undone, his gray knit vest hung slightly crooked, and below were his school uniform shorts—revealing two delightfully chubby calves and impossibly round knees. On his feet were a pair of worn canvas sneakers, the left shoelace untied. He glanced at the fruit basket in your hands, then at your face, parting his lips before quickly shutting them again. From behind him came his mother's voice: "Xiao Li, is that the lady from next door? Hurry and let her in—" Only then did he pull the door most of the way open and step aside, his voice muffled in his throat: "...Please come in." While taking off your shoes, you noticed he was already crouched in the corner of the entryway, straightening a pair of guest slippers—turned toward you, toes neatly aligned. Slipping them on, you found they fit just right. As he stood back up, he picked up your sneakers and set them onto the shoe rack, never once looking up at you the whole time. A faint brownish birthmark peeked out at the nape of his neck, shaped like an elongated ginkgo leaf. His mother poked her head out from the kitchen to invite you to take a seat, bringing out tea and sliced melon before calling out to him again: "Xiao Li, grab a cushion for our guest!" He had already curled up in the corner of the sofa and started flipping through a manga, but hearing this made him bounce right up. In a flurry of clumsy movements, he snatched a cushion from an adjacent chair and held it out to you. As you took it, your fingertips brushed against his fingers—cool to the touch, like they had just come out of the fridge. He yanked his hand back with a whoosh and pretended to look out the window, his ears already bright red. While his mother chatted with you about neighborhood trivialities in the living room, he stayed as quiet as a shadow the entire time. Occasionally he would turn a page of his manga, but you could tell he hadn't read a single word—he had been stuck on the exact same page for nearly five minutes. Every now and then, he would sneak a peek at you over the top edge of the book, his gaze lingering on your face for less than a second before ricocheting away—first to the melon on the coffee table, then to his own swinging toes, and finally back to the page. Eventually, his mother got up to take a phone call in the kitchen, leaving just the two of you in the living room. The air hung silent for three seconds. He pretended to turn another page. You caught a glimpse of the cover—Volume 14 of *Haikyu!!*, its spine worn and creased from reading. You casually remarked, "...You read this too?" His fingers stopped mid-turn. He looked up at you, the watery glimmer in his eyes wavering slightly. After hesitating for a couple of seconds, he cautiously tilted the book toward you, revealing the cover. "Mm... this one's really good." His voice was just a fraction louder than before, though the ending trail was still soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. "Do... do you read it too?" You mentioned having watched a few episodes of the anime. His eyes lit up—truly lit up, as though someone had struck a match inside his pupils. Then he lowered his head, pretending to keep reading, but his mouth opened, closed, moved again, and finally managed to squeeze out: "Well... the animation in season four was a bit rough... but the story is still really amazing..." The moment the words left his mouth, he buried his face right back into the book, exposing only the burning-red tips of his ears and that stubborn ahoge. You let out a soft chuckle. His ears flushed even redder. Just then, his mother stepped out from the kitchen. As if granted a royal pardon, he slid off the sofa in a flash: "I-I'll go pour some water—" With that, he scuffed away toward the kitchen in his slippers, his chubby calves bobbing above the loose shoelaces. From behind you came a muffled "thud" from the kitchen—like he had bumped into something—immediately followed by his hushed mumbling to himself: "...I'm fine, I'm fine, it doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt." A moment later, he emerged carrying two glasses of water, placing one before you while clutching the other to his chest. You noticed a tiny, faint bite mark on the rim of your glass—as if someone had nibbled on the edge and then hurriedly wiped it off. Following your gaze, he spotted the mark and froze completely, petrified on the spot. Then, in a panic, he swapped the two glasses, pushing the other one in front of you as he stammered, "...U-Um... this one h-hasn't been bitten..." You picked it up and took a sip—warm water, neither too hot nor too cold, just the right temperature. He curled back into the sofa corner, holding the manga upright to hide his face. You could see one eye peeking out cautiously from above the pages, like a kitten hiding behind curtains to spy on a stranger. When it was time to leave, you walked over to the entryway to change back into your shoes. He came pattering over from the sofa, as if he had spent ages psyching himself up. While you were bent over tying your laces, he swiftly set something down beside your fruit basket—a small plastic bag of homemade cookies. They didn't look like much, with slightly charred edges, but carried a rich, buttery aroma. Looking up at him, you saw he had already backed two steps away, pretending to tidy the keys on top of the shoe cabinet, his ears red enough to bleed. "...My mom baked them," he mumbled, words slurred together. "Um... eat them on your way back." You picked up the bag of cookies; it still felt faintly warm to the touch. You offered a quiet thank you. He paused, caught off guard. Then the left corner of his mouth twitched upward, followed a beat later by the right, flashing two slightly crooked little canines—one with a tiny chip missing. He immediately covered his mouth with his fingertips, but laughter had already spilled over from his eyes, shimmering like a melting piece of toffee. As you stepped out the door, his mother's voice drifted from behind: "Oh, Xiao Li, why did you bring out those cookies? Weren't those the ones you secretly baked yourself last night—" Then came a flurry of panicked footsteps, followed by the crisp click of the door shutting tight. Standing outside, you looked down at the bag of slightly charred cookies in your hand. Suddenly, from behind the door came a muffled groan, like someone burying their face into a cushion: "...Aaaagh, this is so embarrassing—!" You couldn't help but smile. From then on, whenever you walked past his front door, there would always be a crooked little origami puppy on the windowsill, facing in your direction.